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gallbladder [29 Mar 2009|06:09pm]

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normalbodytemperature [23 Mar 2009|05:39am]

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A Continuation of Politics by Other Means [21 Apr 2008|11:44am]

A note to the sleeping volcano that is baneofexistence:

As a maintainer of abstractthought, I invite those of you still tuned in to join us in the same spirit of inquiry and contemplation that earmarked this forum Once Upon A Time.

abstractthought looks forward to your input.

This post has been randomly generated for your edification.

Modern American life vrs. life in Auschwitz [09 Oct 2007|12:29am]

LONG philosophical/historical post insideCollapse )
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You See Me on the Street; You Always Act Surprised [08 Feb 2007|07:06pm]

To what, and from what, can this infinite whirl be saved?

-D.H. Lawrence, The Escaped Cock

The theme returns again and again.

This hand hits the chess clock, click-clack, no longer wondering why some don't sleep.

Will it ever change, dear narcissists? Did you know you could fall in love with more than your own reflection? If the question is intellectual property, isn't that picture of you you name Perfect Everyman as equally enticing as your own portrait? These faces you see become kissing reflections, those faces in the water gives without resistance; the worst lovers because they disturb and disperse so easily at a touch. Do you like to seek a fight against opposing lips, the same way noble savages want to creep behind the witch doctor's mask? Are you the same souls now, who would, in the midst of Aisle Number Three, in front of the Wonder Bread, ask what was meant when someone said forever, or true, or they wish to die?

Please, be real, you demand. Hell of a desire.

The economies of twenty-seven Third World countries are spent daily on lies. The inhabitants, of course, starve, or run for their ever-freakish lives. Conspiracy theorists and folks with a general need to push something around cheer; but I'm talking about Fiction. Meet your loves back in the Bread Aisle, and ask them why they can't be real? What is with these hundred facades? You might think technology revolutionized lying. No, dear hearts, it's just that you could now do it sitting down and eating bon bons, as easily as you could order collector's plates with a credit card and a touch tone telephone. Said plates were luckier, no one ever demanded integrity out of them. At best they were put on display, and if you ate off them, the lead paint damaged your internal organs.

Consider that a potent warning against consumption of plates or men, for that matter.

The question chafes me: what right, what demand, what dare drives one to ask this much of another: Be more Real. And yet, everywhere, underneath dollar criticism and complaint, I hear that question scraping. You may tie it up, you may regulate the flow of information with so many formal and informal rules, bizarre traditions, and the thinnest of lines drawn between give me more and stop, measured only by the length and intensity of an itch and still: The real you demand, a dynamite word, a tetrachloride word , no coincidence for four letters. Do you want a picture of your bread aisle lover, weeping, drooling, furtively masturbating in the dark corner adjacent from your own? Confessing a taste for everything wrong, ugly, loud, and visceral?
There's no painting those real portraits, no souveniering (n/a word). It is just another Author and their Fiction; eat them and move on. Until you get the taste for a clean canvas out of your mouth.

Clack-click. Time is up, time to move. The sound of history, passed, in a rifle bolt, a steam arm, a door latch. Your jaw clicking in cynicism at the crash of another paper-thin expectation. Has a Digital Marketable God inspired faster downloadable hypocrisy? Is such an evil (or let me be scientific: Deviance) made worse because it can be articulated, packaged, and delivered with the throwload and precision of laser guided small-yield atomic weaponry right into your eyes?

Now, maybe God can be properly dead, a permanent deconstruction the equivalent of having lost all faith in this inescapable self-obsession of the new electronic man.


Then Again, Too Few to Mention [02 Jan 2007|04:27pm]

There's just one thing I had to say to Janus this year, while passing him:

You know what else has two edges? A fucking knife, pal.

You know, somebody always has to play killer, and somebody else victim.

I'm amused (and oft confused) when I see both archetypes wrestling for first blood right in the face of the person in front of me. Oh, it's the time for reflection, all right, it's that time of year where the numbers change, and where one can ignore the changing of day to next day, when the year turns, most heads do too. Now they've got a fancy ritual for all this head turning, all that back-and-forth: they call it resolution.

The act of resolution itself is psychotic; if a man stood in front of you with purple velvet and a crystal ball, blew some machine smoke into your face, and said through a voice filter Look Upon What Ere May Be, you'd plant a solid toe in his testicles; too thoroughly postmodern to assume your life was that small a stream, that it had one direction to go, and that was down. Even if the man could describe it in a warbly, half-fearful-half-hilarious voice. The act of resolution is psychosis; one believes in a world so limited, so defined; in their own character, so limited, so defined that one single element can be changed for a man to call his journey upward; as the death sentence of progress smiles. It renders a man all the complexity of the internal combustion engine, and if so, one ought to commit their life and ethics to regular periodic maintenance. No wonder we die in disgrace, like forlorn rustbuckets with bird's nests under the hood, and pissed-in upholstery, being dragged off to the crusher.

Of course, I have no solution to the resolution. Folks like to solve the problems of themselves one question, one line item at a time. but it gets me to thinking about sticking the fishhook down some resolution's throat, to get it caught in the tender rectum of that fantasy, to turn that bastard inside-out. I bet I find another wonderful psychotic state of thought, something that visits in January (and probably every holiday) and isn't forgotten by the end of the month.


If the whiplash from forward motion is the act of resolution's hope; the backwards jerk, the noose that snaps you into yesterday would be regret. Now everybody knows a soul with this story: I have no regrets. And there are as many folks who secretly aspire to such horrible perfection as there are naysayers who simply disbelieve such a claim. In today's prisons of apathy, I see as many innocents as I do stone-cold stranglers.

So what if regret is sheer lunacy? Perhaps I shouldn't discount its educational aspects, but that's like not discounting the educational aspects of growing callouses on the bottom of your feet for firewalking. There's better ways to challenge the gods, I might say. You might spend enough time thinking of that wrong decision, of a life of wrong decisions to find you're made of the meat of both sins of resolution and regret. You have become what you've eaten. Simply stated: Who wants to be wrong? Worse: who wants to fucking admit it? No way, brother, give me the handy lie, give me delusion like single-serving medication on a schedule, give me a million parallel universes with a million possibilities, a million universes that don't give a good goddamn about me, just so I can escape this one for a bit, and a million other mes can escape theirs. Perhaps the whole world's full of beautiful, dangerous, mountain-climbing poetry-writing dope-doing kid-killing wrong and being right is the comfortable yet unattainable psychosis they've got folks chasing after.

Then again, rituals weren't always noted for their sanity.

screwing up evolution? [18 Dec 2006|09:45am]

[ mood | contemplative ]

ok i just joined this community so im not sure if im even posting the kind of stuff this community is looking for but anyway sorry if im off topic.

medicine and health care in general has advanced so much in the past few decades. today people are living longer and babies who are born with birth defects, that would have died twenty years ago, are living to adulthood and having kids of their own. but sometimes i wonder if thats really a good thing because naturally the weak ones would die long before they were able to reproduce, but now the weak and diseased are living to adulthood and having children who they are potentially passing that defect onto. we're screwing with evolution and survival of the fittest. i wonder if we're ensuring our own demise.

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A Little Late for Diogenes [29 Sep 2006|12:36am]

If I had a lamp that could light truth, with my ill will, I'd have busted it into about seven thousand pieces by now. And should that prove ineffective, I would have chewed on the fragments unitl their edges held all the threat of a line of drool out the corner of my mouth.

Rational men. Where do I find 'them'? You ever talk to a man with a persecution complex, you'll notice he uses the word 'They' frequently. They are responsible for this. They have no interest in seeing the innovative and the original brought forth. Their definition fo beauty is the familiar, the pre-approved, and the accepted. The reason why the spastic creative mind has such trouble meeting with veneration in his given time, is that the new, startling, paradigm-shifting interpetations are a direct threat to such beauty. It is folks who would spill the preceding sentence out of their mouths that enjoy the use of the word Them in all forms.

And tell me, now, that rational brothers don't love word games more than a piece of ass most days. They codify said ass into very bizarre little contract negotiations. Don't ever accuse them of choosing piece of mind.

I recover from rationality myself. there's a friendly old rub in simplification, don't think I don't know it. I'd sit there, in front of whatever ridiculous tale I was hearing. If that sonofabitch threatened me in the slightest, if its assertions even barely scratched a challenge against my own train of thought, I took it apart. I went to work on it. Logic to get like water in the cracks. A little of the Socratic to shiver it apart. Ahmmers of finality; imeprative, self-assured mutual destruction in the postmodern as a last resort. I'd pull years worth of culled reading together into finest construct of an astrological chart, and declare the future of the idea worthless. Almost an idea? Almost works with hand grenades, you suicidal motherfucker, I'd say. I'd ratchet up the vocabulary. Words should have an exact meaning, I'd say. No one word should be doing the work of two.

Sometimes I wonder how the rational brother gets past the headache of the metaphor. or worse, envy, sublimation, longing, or sarcasm.

And why he hadn't taken a hatchet to the Poet's throat yet.

Overindulgence might be a curse. I might have turned those laws into chants I'd reinforce myself with in the in-between quiet hours over and over, as if repeating them made them worthwhile. I learned how to give myself every name and label in the fucking book. In the end, that house of cards blew over. I used to curse at career-minded types, at middle managements, mortgage payers, and child-bearers. Having something to lose was hilarious to me. I've since gained a better measure of understanding. Lincoln Log morality might blow over, or the parental mindfuck reaches the limit of its influence: One find different centers. Change of location, change of ground: good for foraging, good for survival.

It takes a number of years and a strong stomach to learn that you don't know. And real fire in the gut to want to still take steps afterward.

So these days, I hunt the rational brother. Without torch, because I don't think it's light he needs. All I've got is an ear. I look for the ones who've given their souls all the way over to it: I look for the truly regulated. They hold a secret I don't have. What a will, to bend themsleves into the checks, balances, and fallbacks. Now, rationality has put a lot of food on the table. Obedience has had its rewards, and when it comes to matters of currency and exchange, I'd rather broker with a banker than a poet. Still I seek the brother who has yet to be overtaken; the one who stands apart even from his work, who hasn't heard the three AM question sponsored by self-doubt and the inevitability of failure. For failure is always an option, no matter how strong the faith in rationality, or any other pantheon. No answers by pranksters or jesters. Or lawyers or semantic mathematicians. Not even from apologists.

I'd like to see one more unshakable soul before I die.

Call that the most irrational of behaviors: Wishing.

the Damnation of Details [12 Aug 2006|09:32pm]

There are probably as many metaphors of a game-related nature regarding life, as there are willing folks at greasy sideshow bars fifteen minutes from closing waiting for you to give them thirty seconds to tell you about it. And the list goes on; I have sat and listened about the player and about the game. I stood unimpressed; then again, that is a curse it appears I'll be bearing for some time (unimpression, that is). I'm not one to burst in on the on the great Poker of living, and have a metaphysical breakdown.

Oh, the Games People PlayCollapse )

Maybe it was time to go back to the bar.

America: Freedom to Fascism [16 Jun 2006|07:28am]

Apologies for 'spam', please read.Collapse )
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http://catchus.org/ review [14 Jun 2006|10:36am]

This information is taken from http://catchus.org/ I suggest everyone review this website for a few moments. It is well put together, and the video is very telling. The video to download is brief, that a woman took from her car of individuals who she caught stalking her. The information on the site is all credible and real, what do you think of the implications of such vigilante groups on our society?

Community-based harassment is a grown-up version of school yard bullying. Multiple individuals within a community participate in the harassment and stalking of a single individual. However, rather than attack a victim physically, techniques are used to undermine a person psychologically. This can be far more damaging than a physical attack because not only is it very hard to prove, but it is extremely traumatizing for the victim. (Also known as cause stalking or gang stalking).

What sets community-based harassment apart from the related examples to the right is that the reason it takes place is often obscure to the victim. Without a solid reason for its occurrence, victims are often dismissed as delusional.

In addition, this form of harassment often leaves the target a victim of ridicule among friends and family because of the subtle nature of the attacks, which further compounds the trauma to the victim. It is emotionally draining and isolating to the victims because it is extremely difficult to prove, and virtually impossible to prosecute.

"Non-lethal weapons is a broad category which includes devices for beaming various kinds of energy at human targets in order to temporarily incapacitate them, or to control or affect their behaviour. There is abundant evidence in the public domain that non-lethal weapons research is ongoing and funded annually in the tens of millions of dollars, or more. Given the fact that chemical and biological weapons, mind control drugs and radiation have been tested on unwitting civilian populations, it is possible that non-lethal weapons have also been tested on unwitting citizens... To date, organized and academic medicine have acted as if non-lethal weapons do not exist."

- Dr. Colin A. Ross,
Bluebird: Deliberate Creation of
Multiple Personality By Psychiatrists

Check out the website for more information!
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[29 May 2006|04:08am]


I'm constantly amazed that i find myself in a world that thinks it knows everything but continually proves it knows little if anything. This is at once a source of hope and a cause of despair.

If i were to begin i would not stop. Why should i prove myself to be here?

I'm not sure what part i will play in this human drama we call Earth, but i believe i'm about to witness the single greatest and most defining event of the 21st century.
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Introduction [10 May 2006|09:48pm]

[ mood | dorky ]

Hi Everyone! I’m new to the community. Here’s a short introduction:

I attend Boston University School of Theology as a Masters of Theological Studies candidate. My primary interests are the conflictual identity formation of the early Jesus movement, postmodern theology (in particular Rowan Williams), Islamic theology (kalaam), and religion and its relationship to conflict. I’m an agnostic Christian, or a Christian agnostic, emphasis depending on the day or hour.

Nietzsche holds a special place of affection for me, as one of my favorite masters of suspicion. His scenario, imagining a lonely planet orbiting a star in a random corner of the universe where those who inhabited this world invented words like truth and goodness, but the star cooled with entropy and the creatures of the planet died and along with them their words, yet the universe continued, appealed to me because of the wound that it inflicts on our precious egos and the question with which it leaves people. Does anyone know we’re here? Does faith in a god even remove this? Or does his question reconstitute faith in a new way? This seems most appropriate to this community and why I found it appealing (in 500 words or less, ha).

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Rotten Device... [22 Apr 2006|03:56pm]

Consider the dangers of forgetting that there are fundamental limits on the scope of human understanding. While being overrun by a limitless stream of information in our contemporary culture we are increasingly prone to crude over-simplifications. This forgetting or active repression of our experience can be countered through art by escaping the confines of concepts and letting intuition run free through our individual experiences of life.

It's easy, safe and comfortable to place a label on something; to subjugate experience down into a concept. If we look, however, at the process of concept construction we see something that is subjective; something that could have 'gone the other way.' Binary logic is, by its very nature, flawed (biased). It imposes a preferential hierarchy on one term and then defines it's opposite by negating this initial concept. As opposed to this rigid and rational device, language needs to allow for movement, interpretation and subjectivity.

While not being of the opinion that there is a "truth of the world" that metaphor can explain better than a concept, I think that metaphor is more honest and aware of what processes are involved in it's use. This trend of awareness is what I think is lacking in contemporary culture, most people subscribe to the 'information' that is our there and accept it as fact/knowledge without fully considering its fundametal opperation.

For me music allows for interpretation and subjective experience and it is in music that I am able to escape form the black and white forced upon me in everyday life. I'm excited by the unknown and skeptical about anyone who thinks that they 'have the answers'. It's not that music (art) provides an answer but it is a much needed return to a life lived within "the body" as opposed to the rational life lived in "the mind." I use these terms reluctantly as I know that a dualistic theory falls into binary logic. Knowledge is no good as a dead concept, rather it be open to an interpretive experience.
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An interesting question. [09 Mar 2006|12:28pm]

[ mood | contemplative ]

A few days ago my computer science teacher was telling us about when he took philosophy in college and that there was one student who would always ask questions that were not related to the topic at hand. He gave us a few examples of the questions this person would ask, and one of them has been stuck in my head.

The question he asked was, "If God and superman (as in the overman/ubermensch not the comic book hero) got into a fight who would win?"

I'm curious to see what you guys think of this.

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Put up or shut up. [04 Mar 2006|07:36pm]

[ mood | forgot to tell you I love you ]

Whippie friggen hullabaloo! Hey peers, I thought I'd open a can of worms tonite!

I just wandered into the morass of an animal rights person, who would willingly torture, kill and mutilate any human that even insnuates that those pretty animals are beyond reproach. What a friggen loonie. Sure killing for sport or fetish is wrong, but if some idjet wants to club a seal or a dozen, and some criminal but necessary governemnt profits from it and people want it (real fur does feel nice on a sultry warm shouder), what's the difference then from killing a cow for cheap leather or a soldier for cheap oil.

Yes, I am a member of the most cruel, ignorant and selfish society known to this planet since the dawn of time. What, maybe then I am a mean person because I find it all disgusting, but, also realist who thinks letting a steam-roller roll over me to protest some Palestinian housing or starve myself because little piggies are being bled out before being decapitated before becomming my bacon in the morning, is an even worse waste of time? Or what?

I think if more people worried about their own lives and spent less time whining about some dipshit cause in Timbucktoo that we'd all be better off - more prepered for self defense, survival and for life and the protection of our loved ones. Of course seals will always be clubbed, clueless bimboes will end up as headless torsoes in a marsh somewhere and someone's god will disasppoint them, and still, some loser will find solace in a television show or a mangy pet, but at least I will be comfortable, for I know what I want, grasp for what I need, and make the best of it...

I don't know, maybe thats not me truly, but I just hate being told and expected to understand someone's opinion that is both contradictory and counterproductive to the good of society. If this was a perfect world, or there was great harm being done to many, yea sure, protest, but those Merikken Taliban idiots that want to ban abortions and make us follow their Baptist Allah, or those that support indescriminate death of dumb-fux who "die for their country", or tell me that I am not allowed to be me, a consenting adult who along with other consenting adults, behind the walls of our private residence, choose to indulge in the pleasures of the mind and body, or that I must support greed, curruption and styoopidity becaust it's "my flag"? No, sorry.

I'll watch as the new Rome collapses to an Islamic wasteland as the preachers and mullahs send their minions to battle as the trumpets of Meggido wail. Me the beautiful f*cked up man, may even be listening to Sarah and sipping a beer as the stars slowly go out, one by one. Hopefully, however, I'll have someone to hold on to as we slowly drift away...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I was going to espouse more on the solace of not having like minds to challenge my comcept of the athiestic YHWH, and with the wife and kid off to some sporting event (ha, ain't that a switch, a man at home while the family goes to a game!) I was going to put some thought into this, but I guess I needed to blow off some steam on this above brew-haha. Speaking of that I think it's time for another brew and some Thin Mints...

To all thanks, to those I have offended, sorry, but that's the real world, and to those I have not yet encountered, please think before whining.


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extra Ecclesiam nulla Salus: Dig Your Own Holes [20 Feb 2006|04:37pm]

Mentioning the Church at any given interval may soon replace strobe lights as the quickest, most effective way to send someone into convulsions. Even considering the grand authority of said Church (which conjures images of the great asshole on legs of Pink Floyd 'Wall' fame, crowned majestically in judge's robes and spitting) gives one shivers. There aren't many more things of dread then a disembodied bellowing mindless voice of authority, woefully out of touch with its wards, and ultimately assured of its right, reputation, and privelege based on an ethic put in play fifty years ago. Perhaps in the days of horse pulled cart (and horse pulled directive, by the smell of such things) things changed slowly, and fifty years was enough for a proper reign of morality. Anoybody with two eyes would see these days are much faster, and the beasts have larger appetites and shorter tolerances for delaying gratification. You're lucky you're thinking the same way fifty weeks from now, much less fifty years.

(though, I certainly believe this has always been the case, and folks have up until now just done a better job of sweeping dirt under the rug)

You know, I've always danced to religion. I imagine I'm a disciiplined individual, with dashes of intensity, an appreciation for process, and an unhelathy curiosity. I don't find attack to be an antidote. The proper ritual, the austerity and integrity, the right word, the right time, the movement here, the utterance there; prayers at this hour of the sun, burn this offering; a little blood (honest blood, mind you). Just like assembling the right melody, the heart-rended chord progression, the beat, the pregnant pause, a howling vocal, a gently whining guitar string; if you could just come up with a nice syncopated God, I'd get back into believing. What sort of fellow cares for the garden by taking a flamethrower to the radishes because crabgrass came up next to them? Rule men by the bread they buy, and if you can't do that, because choking the inclination toward free market off eventually leads to the guillotine; then rule them by their questions.

I find the most humor in the business of testimonial. Far be it from me too be too critical (I'm lucky I can exercise godlike powers over the mollies in the aquarium), but isn't the 'send two box tops in and ten proofs of purchase and get a free weekend pass into heaven' a mite hilarious? Now I don't take the easy joke at the expense of the evangelist (seeing the envelope urging me in seven vivid colors to 'take advantage of the discount bulk prayer rate' always, always gives me a chuckle); rather I am fascinated by those doctrines that demand active recruitment. A fellow comes up on the public transportation, which leads me to believe given the frequency of these sorts of encounters on the mass transit, that one's religious fervor is inversely proportional to gas prices. At three dollars a gallon, if one is driving, I'm betting my salvation becomes very economic. Anyway, he comes on up, and gives me the old Q & A, with a vested interest in ensuring the productivity of my Afterlife. 'Do you want to die and go to hell?' he asks me. Good God, man, my doctor, who has told me that if I do not stop the drinking, sleep deprivation, and high intensity activity of my current self-destructive lifestyle, I'll go down the very same road, found an easier way to ask me that question. I suppose I don't get alarmed at the man's intention (hell, I don't exactly have any folks beating the door down talking about saving me); I find his interest in brotherhood oddly charming, but I have to wonder what hsi angle is. And let me tell you: it wasn't enough that he crawled out of the gutter and a pool of his own poisoned puke, and cleaned up. it wasn't enough that he went ahead and threw away his easy pain relief, his escapes and the tools of an eventual release. it wasn't enough that he did in order to please a face he'll never see, a voice he'll never hear, but has to believe is there. He must now go out and convert. 'You poor bastard', I say. 'Your work's not even close to over. You traded one whip hand for another.' Two box tops. ten proofs of pruchase. Ten percent off Heaven for every hundred you bring in.

If you knew the whole world was dying, what would you do about it? Exactly what you're doing now, because it always is. nobody ever discusses what's being born.

Which brings me at last to the nasty little geist, faith. I don't need to speak on its behalf. A million bomb throwing believers, criminals with authority and guns, and whole communities cutting their young men and women at the joint and abandoning them into social consumer/acquisition wastelands speaks well enough for me. And that's just in between these borders. I suppose it disturbs me when one acquires any given faith in a thing, that something else must be disbelieved. Now this is the way of education, mind you, in the nature of being corrective. For the love of god, is there no limit, though? This business of faith increasingly becomes a list things that are not to be done; a lack of priveleges, a simplicity to be acquired through limitation and compulsion. I saw another faith, once, in the man who looked at a sky and wanted to dwell in it; the man who wanted to reach the horizon in a single day; men who wished to unite under a common banner and determine their own desitinies. Men disbelieved by their peer geneartion, driven by this faith, that they could do a damn thing, despite having no evidence to the contrary. A faith that could achieve, rather than divide, or restrain. What sort of God did they place ahead of them, as they struck out alone, into those unexplored lands? Is it the same god who would make mere messenger boys and criers out of dregs, and robots and militants out of folks, rather than history out of men?

[14 Feb 2006|12:00am]

In a class called Origins of Contemporary Thought, I learned that Kant is the most awesome transformable piece of origami in philosophy.

His metaphysics forms a convenient bridge between every useful kind of philosophy (roughly speaking: anything not utilitarian): materialism, idealism, pragmatism, anti-reason, pro-reason, Christian, athiest, Schopenhauerean, and Nietzschean. (and I have read that Hegel is connected, but I don't know how it's so)

All that's needed to move from one to the other is removing one assumption or another that he makes along his merry way to his philosophy.

The transformable part:
The world of human knowledge is composed of two parts; the first part is the phenomenal world- everything that can be sensed and understood, as it appears to an observer. The second part is the noumenal world, the truth of the way things are (either physical or spiritual truth), where God's laws of nature and soul reside. It is impossible to know anything in the noumenal world, but it is also impossible to think without assuming something about it. An example pheonmena would be a letter you recieve in the mail. You know that you have a letter, and you read it over and over and it's the same each time. The assumptions you make of the truth (noumena) of the letter would be the existence of time and space for the letter to exist in, someone writing the letter for you to hear from, and that the letter is written in an intelligible language. There is no way to know any of those things are true, but you can't read and understand a letter without assuming those things are true. You assume those truths. Another way of saying it is that you categorize the pheonmena in order to understand it. [My construction of] Kant is adamant that the noumenal world, the world where truth resides, is inaccessible. You can't go from what you see to what you believe is true, you can only assume it is so (you can't go from scientific data to a guaranteed true theory). These noumenal assumptions are obligatory, they are necessarily made. And these assumptions are therefore justified.

To go from Kant to Plato, you emphasize that the entire world of phenomena is ruled by command from the noumenal world; that there are rules that exist to make a truth of things, and that they can affect the material world.
To go from Kant to idealism, you say what Plato said, but you pretend it was your original idea. You then assume that you CAN know these ideals, but put up dross claiming truth is too perfect for reality.
To go from Kant to materialism, you say that because we can't know the noumenon, it's irrelevant, and everything is pheonomena. There is only the material world and no ideal truths, only apparent truths.
To go from Kant to pragmatism, you drop the idea that the noumenal assumptions are obligatory, and simply say they're useful.
To go from Kant to Schopenhauer, you say that we can directly feel the noumenal world in our subjective will, and that it feels like suffering. You reemphasize that the phenomenal world is an illusion, and that the only way to end suffering is to end willing. To move on from Schopenhauer to Buddhism, you say that by negating your will, you can seek release in Nirvana.
To go from Kant to Nietzsche, you make the materialist shift, and then you say, the noumenal assumptions aren't obligatory and justified truths, they're errors, and errors are good.
Kant believed in reason, but he demonstrated its inability to create order of the world on its own.
Kant was Christian, but he showed that it was impossible to directly know the nature of God by studying His works in phenomena. He got around this by saying that when you see people acting in accordance to their noumenal soul, the categorical rules humans must follow because they are moral, you see the hand of God in the world. Get rid of this logic and you have atheism.

I like this point in philosophy.
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Positively Dead Street [06 Feb 2006|03:57pm]

It does my heart good to know, that when (when) I decide to go on an unrestrained, unwarranted spree of wanton death-dealing and destruction, that out beyond the thick walls they're going to put me in and past the threats of a bullet that's faster than I can run, there may be a soul with a sign, campaigning for my right to persist. What a freedom in an age where every fellow with a dollar and a few seconds of your time will attempt to convince you your freedoms are in danger.

It is a strange sensation. What does one say to such folks?

Ah, now, if you'd chastise me, you'd first do so for not having proper enough respect for the dead. Are we the only species who love to make such a sport of our corpses? Ten thousand words for snow, may be said from some Inuit. How many words, then, for Death? God, there is the stink of it in every ritual, every period at the end of every sentence. Legalize killing and call it warfare. Issue forth a tornado and call it tragic. Kill a child and summon a whole world's worth of retribution; kill the same senior citizen vegetable and call it mercy. Blame God, if (1) one hasn't already and (2) hasn't already killed that august gentleman by means of some savage self-convincing argument. in order to start wringing a bit of guilt from the thoroughly postmodern conscience of today, one only need start measuring out the gallons of blood shed on the street they live on alone. 'We're killing ourselves', a teary eyed protestor cries, and I am not shaken. Death is served up as poison and death as metaphysical antidote.

Perhaps it is the muck, the entrails, and the dirty business of cleanliness that leads so many to choose to argue about dying in the abstract. My curiosity is aroused by the individual who would battle so little for their own life, but wholeheartedly for another's. it's not a pretty business, this final expiration and defecation, somebody's laughter reduced to pools of fluid. Perhaps there's nothing more sobering (and nothing perhaps, of better proof, that there' s just a few guidelines out there the human animal best be adhering to, despite its insane desire to resist) then pulling hair from out of a shattered windshield. Today fingers lovingly ran through it, tomorrow a pair of needlenose pliers will. No surprise, that in the face of such vast immediate elimination, men find (or invent) things like religion, like brotherhood, like law; nearly no different in such gathering as the beasts in a pen would instinctively huddle together underneath the storm. Also it may be equally valid for one to understand the blind disregard any travelling soul has to have when exiting the house. the World at Large, and more specifically, the ten thousand lines of force and intent converging just around you (such as on a freeway in one and a half tons of flesh-rending metal and ploymers, going eighty) certainly does not have your best interests in mind.

A man might believe in the bullet with his name on it; it might be easier. A nod here to the random sort of folk, who are much more brave. with impending purposeless causeless doom around every corner, it's a wonder they wake and consciously choose to leave the house. A wonder they don't freeze in the corner, and die shivering, stuttering, and starving. In this way we have folded the foul business into even more abstraction. And I wonder, at times, if this is what human dominion truly is, finding names for things, and then folding manifold beauty and activity (whether lovely or lethal) into terms to be bandied over, taking the joy of experience away from the senses, and dulling them down into hierarchy. Does such an assertion of control, even if invisible, lessen the sting of one's end any more so? Perhaps. I know this: with enough obfuscation, we can turn bodies into numbers, martyrs, causes, and admonitions. We can convert them into lists, use them as boogeyman to straighten the behavior of an errant child, wring one more drop out of the sympathy tittie exposed by our self-absorbed co-inhabitants, who give nothing up but only grudgingly. The mortar of empire is the human body, thrown against the enemy unitl his resolve, also measurable in the willingness to withstand loss, breaks. We may capture our mortlaity in well-produced forty-five second segments, cueing the French horn, oboe, and booming timpani at just the right second to evoke maximum empathy with our fellow man (and oft times just before the collection plate is passed).

I know, I know; I've wandered into the melodramatic. Certainly one ought to make the business of living one of engaging life, rather than avoiding death. A funny thing: You steep a man in enough blood; if he's seen enough of it, or shed it, either literally or metaphorically, one may observe a certain alien element to arise in his ethics. As if by seeing the human body and/or psyche violated a thousand different ways, he has moved beyond the needs solely defined by them. He is no longer one who can afford the arrogant walls of small worlds. being cut loose from such bonds without any sort of acclimation may force him to chase doom with doom. For if we have any real sense of our own demise, it is extremely personal. Easier to shoot at a distance then stab up close, and suddenly our mortality becomes an issue of distance. Those in love affairs with death are dangerous, perhaps, because of such unnatural severance; perhaps this is what make such an abrupt concious end such a suicide so puzzling, we simply can't get there from here, no matter our willingness to understand. We still have certain roots.

From my imaginary cell, in the throes of a killing field that will never take place beyond metaphor, I take this moment myself, not to detach completely, but to stretch my own bonds. as I consider the impending jolt of a few hundred thousand volts, or a needle slowly snaking its way under my skin to deliver a final payload, the rope burn, highway oevrpass and buried speedometer, or the most poetic of these: the cold ring of steel against the temple. No, in this imaginary last few seconds I want to rise above these walls to speak with that dear protestant, and the millions like them, children of Media, whose ethics are better schooled and produced then my own mean, violent statements of a desire for a base, barbaric freedom.

Perhaps, I whisper, if you would fight so goddamn hard for the right for me or any man to have a life, or its simulacrum, you might do me and the World a favor by fighting ten times as hard for your own; you might then yet see the change in the World you're so williing to believe in to die for.

New Member. [06 Feb 2006|11:19am]

[ mood | anxious ]

I am a new member and I understand I must post an introductory entry.

Human, the act of being human, is much less noble than the ideals that define it. I work in an environment that would give Nicolo Machiavelli a run for his money. I see the worst there is to see in humanity. I don't believe that people are good or bad, they just are. I have seen "good" people do very bad things and "bad" people do good things.

I don't know if I belong here, I just am.

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